


Through the storm

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Established Relationship, Homecoming, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: For the prompt: I'd love a winterly Trevilieu prompt. Treville is riding through the snow, on his way back to Paris, thinking of the warm fire in his rooms in the garrison, but his thoughts soon drift to the Palais Cardinal.
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu/de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 71





	Through the storm

Snow dripped down Captain Treville’s neck and into the fabric of his collar, leaving him shivering despite the many layers he’d put on. It was only a matter of time until the snow would make its way down to his back. Still, he was glad of the double layers of socks and his good boots as his horse trotted onwards on the icy road to Paris.

His cloak had become soaked hours ago, even if it did provide a layer of protection against the merciless wind.

Treville breathed in, regretting it immediately as his lungs protested.

Only an hour left of riding until he’d be by the roaring fire in his rooms the garrison, warming his hands and wearing fresh clothes. If he was lucky, someone would have been thoughtful enough leave him some hot water so that he could wash his face and the worst of the sweat off after the journey. And maybe also a bowl of hearty soup.

He’d sit in front of the fire until his whole body was warm. No matter if that took hours.

Treville let out a breath, watching the icy cloud in the air.

His numb fingers gripped the reins tighter. They were probably becoming blue beneath his thick gloves, so he tried his best to rub them together to get some feeling back into them.

The wind ripped at his cloak and tried to steal his hat, leaving his face red and his lips chapped to the point of bleeding.

It would be good to be home.

Oh Lord, it would be so good to be home.

It had been a successful mission, with no loose ends and nobody dead. That would please the king.

Treville could already see Louis in his mind’s eye, decked out in warm layers as he stalked around the Louvre with Richelieu on his heels, explaining that Treville had been the best choice to finish the job. And Richelieu would worry too much, his mind insisting on finding the very worst outcome.

Treville injured, or ill, or frozen to death by the road.

Treville could barely imagine Richelieu out in this weather, even if he was decked out in furs and wearing boots that cost more than most peasants would make in several lifetimes. No, that man was cold even when he was under the covers by the fire. He’d wrap himself around Treville at night, seeking warmth and then denying it by morning.

Perhaps, if he played his cards right, he’d be able to spend the night at the Palace Cardinal if he’d frame it as a necessary aspect of his meeting with Richelieu dragging on. And if he knew Richelieu well enough, he’d find himself in front of a very large fireplace and with a glass of fine wine in his hand before he’d be able to protest. All the while Richelieu would rant about how he should not have been sent on a mission where he’d have to spend so much time in the cold, surely one of his men could have been sent instead.

And Richelieu’s bony fingers would linger on Treville’s shoulders and arms for just a fraction too long.

The wineglass would empty, the feeling in his toes and fingers would return.

Richelieu would stand closer, not circling him like a wolf, but smiling like one.

Treville’s old, trustworthy trousers would be shoved down to his ankles, red silk would end up draped over some unsuspecting piece of furniture.

He’d have rug-burn on his thighs in the morning, and scratch-marks on his back. Richelieu’s neck would be spotless, no love bite or bruise in sight. His hips would be another matter entirely.

Treville shook himself, getting rid of the snow that had settled on his saddle. He kept his eyes on the icy road in front of him, in case any highwaymen were so stupid to try to rob him in this weather.

He urged his horse to go just a fraction faster, slow enough not to slip on the icy and fast enough to prevent them both from freezing to death.

It wouldn’t be long until he got home.

Not long at all.


End file.
